


momentum

by CrystallizedInsomniac



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Illustrated Fic, Kidnapping, Other, Stockholm Syndrome, Yandere, dont wait on it though, might get another chapter who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:21:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27905887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystallizedInsomniac/pseuds/CrystallizedInsomniac
Summary: "Are you happy now?" To an outsider it would look like your doting boyfriend is taking care of you—cooing words of reassurance, wiping your tear-stained cheeks and carrying you to safety. "Threw your little tantrum and now you got hurt. Beel's not going to be happy about this."
Relationships: Belphegor (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Belphegor/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 136





	momentum

**Author's Note:**

> if you feel like i'm missing any tags, feel free to let me know and i'll gladly add them <3
> 
> the art has been formatted so it fits your phone's screen dimensions, so if you're reading this on your laptop the drawing might be huge.
> 
> i know damn well to not post on this website at 8pm est bc visibility, and yet that is exactly what im going to do.

You remember watching a documentary once.

It was late at night after having come home from your first date with them. Your emotions had been all over the place at the time—a mix of excitement and warmth that didn't let you sleep no matter how much you turned—and watching something on TV had seemed like the most logical idea.

The first channel that had popped up had been playing an animal documentary. The scene was being narrated by an extremely soothing voice, so you decided to watch for the sake of it. 

The documentary had been following a zebra running away from a lion, scared but determined. The narrator had pointed out how it almost seemed like the zebra would escape the clutches of the lion, but in it's haste to escape it had misjudged it's surroundings. All it takes is one mistake, one simple fault and things were over.

It had been a hole in the ground, deep enough that when one it's hooves caught on it, it made the poor thing trip. The documentary hadn't shied away from broadcasting the sound of bone snapping, the pain cry of the animal. It cut away the moment the lion had caught up.

You remember laughing, of course it wouldn't have been able to escape.

It shouldn't have tried.

Now, you've never been a big believer on karma, but staring at your bent foot between clumps of tears and snot and your ugly crying, you can't help but think back on the documentary.

All it took was one mistake—one second of looking back behind you, only to find Belphegor closer than he should've been able to—for you to completely miss the ditch on the ground.

At least not until you fell down, rolling and stopping at the bottom when you made contact with a rock, the air inside of you leaving alongside a piercing scream.

Belphegor had stopped at the top, and in between your tears you couldn't help but lament the fact that your back was the one to meet the rock, and not your head.

When he made it to the bottom of the ditch and all the way down to your body, he ignored the way you tried to scoot away from him, only to be stopped short when your whole leg throbbed.

"Are you happy now?" To an outsider it would look like your doting boyfriend is taking care of you—cooing words of reassurance, wiping your tear-stained cheeks and carrying you to safety. "Threw your little tantrum and now you got hurt. Beel's not going to be happy about this."

Out here in the country-side, it's just the two of you. No one to perform his little theatrics for, and you hate him all the more for it.

Hate the way he's crouched down before your form, one hand caressing the side of your dirty cheek—uncaring of your tears and snot and the ugly, open wound you feel on the side of your face—in an act of intimacy that leaves you feeling sick.

Distantly, you're aware that you should be fighting back, not letting him touch you at all. You're realistic though—with your leg fucked to hell, there's no way you're going anywhere now.

Your only true regret is having tried to escape when Belphegor was the only one around, and if keeping still and letting him hold you close is what you need to do in order to _not_ be let alone out here in the woods, well...

"Let's go." Belphegor grunts.

He's everything but gentle when he hooks his arms under your legs and maneuvers you until he's carrying you bridal-style. You're too busy concentrating on the pain of your leg and trying to keep your pathetic whimpers and crying in, that you miss the way he almost sways forward—losing balance, before quickly regaining it. The movement jostles your leg, and another shot of pain runs straight through it.

You cry out.

He makes an annoyed noise when you sob into his chest, arms carefully tucked into your own chest and nails digging into your palms.

You can feel him staring at you, taking in your pathetic state. 

"What was it?" He asks after your crying has reduced itself into small whimpers, dry heaving. The two of you have been walking for some time now, and a part of you laments the fact that you made so much progress before failing. "It'd be easier for us if you told us what you'd needed."

_Home._ You think, _I want to go home and be as far away as I can from the both of you. I hate you, I hate you so much you don't even understand just how much I do you fucking—_

Belphegor laughs, it startles you out of your thoughts. When you finally pull your head away from his chest, you notice that he's looking down at you, a corner of his mouth lifted up in wry amusement.

It's too dark for you to tell—the moon doing absolute _shit_ to illuminate his face, or your surroundings, properly—but the way he's looking at you is almost... fond.

"There we go," He says, and at your confused face he clarifies. "Thought you also bit your tongue off." _Oh_ , you realize, you were probably talking out loud. Belphegor frowns after a few seconds, "I was being serious you know."

Yes, you do. That's why it's so frustrating. It wouldn't be the last, or the first time, that Belphegor and Beelzebub have gone out of their way to remind you that _we only want what's best for you_ as they make you quit your job because Beelzebub makes enough to take care of the two of you and _we love you so much, don't you see?_ when they buy a house out in the country and kidnap you. 

You want to tell him. You want to tell him that the only reason you're even allowing him to be anywhere near you is because you spent what felt like twenty minutes running before you stumbled and fell down that ditch. That even though you'd rather take your chances out there in the wild with a fucked up leg than be stuck back inside the house with Belphegor, you value your life and _that's_ why you're letting him carry you back to your prison. 

You're not dumb. You can't get back home, can't get these fuckers arrested and locked away for good if you're dead. You count your blessings, small as they may be.

Now you know where _not_ to run. 

"Does it hurt that badly?" 

You sneer at him, a pitiful attempt what's with the way you can feel your face is still twisted in both pain and anger, how dirty it must be. "What do you think?"

Belphegor clicks his tongue, readjusts his carry on you in a way that has your leg pressing against him hard enough that it makes you whimper. He keeps it up, on purpose even, and it's only when you notice how _slow_ he's walking and purposely stepping on uneven ground, that you bite back down the snappish tone of your voice.

Compliance, you tell yourself, that's key.

"Belphie," his name comes out soft and whiney, all parts the pain you're feeling and none from the bottom of your heart. The act works, because his face tilts your way, the long-side bang of his is messy and you can barely make out his other eye. Attention acquired, however. "It hurts, please stop holding me so tight."

"Stop whining," Belphegor sighs, annoyed. "You did this to yourself."

The rest of the trip back to the house is uneventful. Belphegor has always been the chattier out of the three, even if it's mostly made up of dry remarks at the expense of others—but when he's angry, it either comes out in harsher comments because he's _observant_ and will have no qualms calling out those little insecurities of yours, or it comes out as silence.

Tonight, it's the silence that permeates between the two of you, which works out just fine for you because you're too busy keeping your thoughts calm and collected.

_Breathe in, breathe out._ A continuous, steady mantra. It helps you ignore the pain of your leg, helps you ignore the feeling of begrudging acceptance that is slowly making itself present inside of you.

That's the third time in the last four months that you've tried to escape.

It's the sound of wooden creaks that bring you back to the present. Eyes wide as you take in your surroundings, you realize you must've blacked out for minutes on end. _Fuck_.

Belphegor is walking up the steps of the porch, the door to the house is wide open and the light from inside is warm and inviting. It gives off the impression of something cozy, warm, _homely—_ as if there's a cooked meal waiting on the table for the two of you.

If you didn't know any better you'd expect to see your loved ones, Belphegor and Beelzebub's family, all together sitting down and bonding. 

If it weren't for you leg and the incoming headache you can feel already forming, you could maybe pretend that the reason the doors wide open is not because you slammed it open earlier on your haste to get the fuck away from Belphegor when the chance had presented itself. That the light from inside doesn't make you feel caged, something tiny and anxious beginning to scream loudly _no, no no nonono I was so close so damn close._ That Belphegor carrying you in his arms isn't because you royally fucked up and now you were back to square one.

He closes the door behind the two of you.

No fanfare, no loud noise that echoes throughout the house. Just a small _click_ as it shuts close. He doesn't even bother to turn the locks—probably won't any time soon, what's with your leg.

Maybe in a couple of months, if your leg heals properly, one of the two will upgrade from five bolts to ten. 

You just hope you're not around to see that by then.

He walks the two of you towards the living room, past the dining room where you can see the shards of glass and ceramic on the floor, the turned chair from earlier. There's a trail of blood on the floor, leading from the table towards the entrance of the house.

You flex your hand at the sight, momentarily confused. It's certainly not from you— _yes,_ you are bleeding now from multiple places, but earlier you did manage to get cut when you took the plate and—

"Stay put." Belphegor grunts out as he deposits you on the couch. He's careful with your leg, and for that you're thankful. Against the soft cushions of the couch and the smell of cinnamon from the candle you had lit earlier, it's almost easy to delude yourself into thinking this is _fine_.

It makes your chest ache, tears beginning to form behind closed eyes.

You hear Belphegor say something else, his hand cupping the side of your face softly. When he wipes your tears with the pad of his thumb, the waterworks begin anew. You're frustrated, angry at yourself, at your captors. Your stupid leg. The smell of cinnamon, and the stupidly soft baby blue cushions under you—Beelzebub had asked you what would make this place feel like home, and you had been fucking with them when you said baby blue, and then he went and got it.

But most of all, you're just _tired._

With another sigh, Belphegor pulls away from you and you hear him walk away. You open your eyes between the blurry tears and the pounding of your head, your leg, only to watch his back disappear around a corner.

He's gone an awfully long time, and by the time he makes it back to the living room, you're seriously contemplating just how hard it'd be to try your hand at escaping again.

Your eyes widen.

"You're bleeding," it comes out of your mouth without your permission. You have to stop yourself from wincing, the flicker of worry that went through you at the sight is wrong. You shouldn't be worried about him.

It's difficult though to quell down the instinct of worry that surged up when he walked back in. Those old feelings that were once true haven't quite yet gotten the memo that you're not supposed to feel any way about him or his brother. Not anymore.

You hadn't noticed outside, and not when he was carrying you, but there's blood running down the side of his temple where you smashed the ceramic plate on his head. The thing had shattered into large clunky pieces, and you hadn't thought twice before running towards the entrance the moment you saw his eyes roll back.

You were out and long gone before his body had hit the floor. 

"That makes the two of us." He holds up a roll of gauze and a pair of scissors on one hand and a bottle of isopropyl alcohol with some small towels in the other.

He makes his way towards you, kneeling at the foot of the couch, in between your legs. He's careful to nudge your legs apart in order to begin inspecting your leg.

You hiss when he applies pressure on it, turning this and that way to access the damage. When you try to pull away from him, he grabs onto your ankle and squeezes, ignoring the cry of pain you let out. "Stop moving."

"It hurts! You're being too rough!"

"If you weren't such an ungrateful brat we wouldn't be here." Again, the frustration lacing his tired voice makes you shut up.

You say nothing when he makes a comment about how you leg isn't too bad, you just sprained your ankle and have some nasty-looking bruises.

Belphegor works quickly and efficiently as he disinfects the cuts scraping your leg, he halts a couple of times though, not enough for you to mention it or really think about it.

When he finishes wrapping up your whole leg, he smiles at you. It's a tired little thing.

"If you wanted attention, all you had to do was say so." He says. When he notices you don't have a reply to his comment, he continues. He blinks, slowly, owlishly, once and then closes his eyes, swaying forward. "This is... the most complicated way to get it...ha. Painkillers, gotta get some for you." 

You suck in a breath, watching him. Is he okay?

You don't realize you've said it out loud again until Belphegor's eyes snap wide open. He flinches, face scrunching up in momentary pain.

He brings a hand up the side of his head. 

"Worried about me?" 

"No that's not—"

"Rich, considering the fact that I'm bleeding because of you." His smile is all ease, as if he were saying a joke. It doesn't reach his eyes. "I can only be so patient, sweetheart."

You bite your lip, look away from him. You mumble.

Belphegor sits back on the heel of his feet. "What was that? couldn't hear you."

You huff. "You deserved it."

"I wonder." Belphegor nods, and then stands up.

This time he doesn't spend as long out of the living room as last time, but it does take a little while. When he comes back his face is clean and slightly damp. He rattles the bottle of painkillers on hand and raises the cup of water up to eye-level. "You're so lucky I love you, I can be kind when you earn it."

The bar is so low. You can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. Acting like he's doing you a favor by extending a shred of human decency. You're too tired to keep up the fight for today, and the sight of the painkillers is enough to have you reconsidering your options. 

Belphegor makes his way back to the couch, and instead of kneeling at the foot of it like last time, he sits right next to you. On the side where your good leg rests, and proceeds to scoot closer and maneuver you so that you're leaning against him.

He pops open the bottle, shakes out two small tablets and offers them to you.

When you pop them into your mouth, you go on to take the cup of water only to find it already pressed to your lips. You shoot him a look, only to be met with an expectant eyebrow raised. You part your lips and allow him to tilt the cup back.

The water is refreshingly cold and makes the pills go down smoother. Only a little bit of water manages to escape your mouth, and Belphegor is quick to dry it with a clean towel.

"I know it hurts." his voice is softer, apologetic, when he ushers you to lay down on your side and rest your head on his lap. "It'll feel better in a little bit, don't worry."

As he traces nonsensical figures into your skin, you wonder just how many painkillers it'd take for you to overdose. 

-

The silence could only go on for so long before you tried again. 

The first three times you hadn't made it past the porch before Beelzebub had showed up out of nowhere and grabbed you by the waist, dragging you back inside. Belphegor had been lazing around on the couch those few times, amused at the spectacle you and his twin brother made—one kicking, screaming, and crying, and the other petting and cooing.

They didn't argue in front of you, Beelzebub has always been one to keep the peace inside the walls of the house he called home for the three of you, but sometimes actions spoke louder than words.

You're not blind, you can clearly tell that with every failed attempt at leaving it only elicited a sadistic sort of glint into Belphegor's eyes—he was never shy from letting himself show just how much he genuinely enjoyed watching you struggle—and a deep sadness is Beelzebub's eyes that sometimes struck you with guilt.

It suddenly became clear to you that there'd be no chance of escaping as long as the two of them were around. 

It took four months of waiting, four months of painstakingly waiting for one of them to be out of the house before you decided it was time again.

Beelzebub had left on Monday morning—something about a week long conference that he couldn't talk himself out of despite him working from home now—which meant that you would be spending most of your time with Belphegor alone. 

You're not dumb. You knew that if Belphegor had been the one to leave and Beelzebub the one to stay, you wouldn't have even attempted what you did on Wednesday night.

For starters, because Beelzebub is _big_ and you've seen the pictures, heard enough stories from him, about the time he played American football from high school all the way through college. Running was definitely out of the question with him.

But the most important detail is the fact that he wouldn't have messed up like Belphegor did. 

Sometimes you don't know how to feel about either of them.

The benefits of staying with Belphegor for the week was the single fact that you could have your space to yourself. He respected that much from you, most likely out of some sense of understanding, and he wouldn't push as much as Beelzebub did. 

The plates and utensils those first two days were no longer plastic, but actual metal cutlery. When you inquired about it, Belphegor had shrugged, not made a big deal out of it, said; "He's not here, you're grown."

It took you less than five minutes to decide that _this_ was the perfect excuse you needed. When he set the cup of wine— _wine,_ god you haven't had wine in so fucking long—next to your empty plate, you wasted no time in "accidentally" dropping it to the floor. Belphegor had shot you an irritated look, bending down to pick up the pieces, and when he straightened back up, you smashed the plate on his head.

There's a reason why Beelzebub took away so many of your "privileges". 

Now, sitting down in the dining table opposite to Belphegor, you can't help but notice the irony of it all.

He's made your favorite dinner, and the smell of it is divine, makes your stomach cramp up because you haven't eaten anything since Wednesday night.

Thursday was horrible, barely a blur between when you were up—and only because of the pain—and asleep. You think at some point Belphegor might've joined you in bed, as he tends to do, but you're not sure.

You slept your way through Friday morning and afternoon, only rousing when Belphegor woke you up again for dinner today. With your whole leg out of commission, you were left needing him to carry you everywhere.

You eye the plastic cup, plate, and utensils in front of you, then you look at Belphegor. He's got one elbow propped up on the table, a smug look on his face. 

"Can't hit me in the head with those," he says. "You're more than welcome to try." 

You roll your eyes. 

"I'm not hungry," you say. It's not a complete lie, you _are_ starving, but your leg has been killing you ever since he sat you down on the chair, and the prospect of eating dinner with him is nauseating. You're honestly a bit pissed at the fact that he only got away with a scar on his temple, a band aid placed right on top of it. You wish you had given him a concussion. "I just want to go back to bed."

Belphegor sighs, "you haven't eaten in almost three days."

You purse your lips into a thin line.

"I also don't think you should be sleeping that much," he says after a beat. "I still don't know if you hit your head when you fell."

"I wish I had." You mumble, playing with your dumb plastic knife and picking at the food. The longer you sit here, the more you appetite begins to dwindle. "You wouldn't have to worry if you took me to a doctor," you say louder then.

You don't have to look back up at him to see the disappointment in his face. You've done this song and dance enough times already. Your leg throbs.

"You know why I can't do that, [Name]." 

"Can I... Can I just get more pain killers?" You sigh, looking up at him. You hate having to ask him for stuff, hate the fact that even if you don't eat anything and decide to be stubborn you _still_ have to ask him to carry you back to your bedroom because you can't walk. It's embarrassing, and exactly the situation you didn't want to ever find yourself in.

You're still not sure if it annoys him, having you be so dependent on him—you know his twin would be having a field day with this whole situation.

Ugh.

His eyebrows are furrowed, but clearly he doesn't miss the opportunity to bargain that you've given him; "Only if you eat your dinner. I can't have you taking any more pills on an empty stomach."

You let out a sigh through your nose, a petulant _fine_ on your lips as you stab your dinner with the fork and begin to eat it.

You hate how damn good it is too, and hate it even more when you make eye contact with Belphegor once more only to see that knowingly pleased look on his face. 

Thankfully Belphegor seems to read the room well enough that he doesn't bother you to make any sort of conversation, even though you can feel those eyes of him on you the whole time you're eating.

The plate in front of you is the most interesting thing in the room if it means not having to look up at him.

When you finally finish everything on the plate, you consider asking for seconds, but the part of you that is burning with shame at such a simple request is denying you from opening up your mouth.

Belphegor, ever so observant, asks you if you want another serving, and your head is shaking _no_ before you can even think about it. He starts to clean up the table, setting things away, before he takes your own stuff and heads to the kitchen to clean up his own plate and cutlery, and throw your own in the garbage.

You're left alone in the table, flexing your hands—the cut on your palm still stings like a bitch, but it doesn't look like it'll scar, hopefully—and thinking about the last seventy-two hours. 

He doesn't call you out on your pettiness, which works out just fine—you'd like to believe that he's pissed at you for not only harming him, but also attempting to run away.

You're honestly surprised he didn't threaten to leave you out in the cold the other day, he seems like the type to have made you beg to take you back, and the worst part is, you probably would've.

As it is, he's been nothing but normal the last few days. More quiet, yes, but that could be due to the tension still lingering in the air. 

He's yet to clean the blood stain on the floor. A reminder.

It's almost mocking.

You feel lips press themselves to the top of your head, have to bite back a whimper when you realize it's just him startling you out of your thoughts.

Belphegor sneaks his arms around your shoulders, pressing himself to the back of your chair. "Things would be so much easier if you stopped being so stubborn."

Belphegor sighs above you, and you close your eyes. The moment doesn't last long, he can probably feel you're getting antsy, all you want to do is go back to bed and sleep. 

When he picks you up again, he's careful to not jostle your leg any more than necessary. He carries you across the room, out into the hall and past Beelzebub's room.

He hesitates when he stops in front of your door, situated in between both their rooms.

There's a tense silence, and when you finally decide to look from your door up at him, you see a flicker of uncertainty across his face.

You frown. "What's wrong?"

You see him clench his jaw, purple eyes flickering from your door to Beelzebub's, and then to his own door. It takes him a second to reply, and when he does, he looks down at you in his arms. "Sleep with me tonight."

"How about, no?"

"How about I drop you right here?"

Your face sours, and he rolls his eyes. It's not a question, and you know better than to protest as he walks towards his door, kicking it open softly and closing it back with his foot once the two of you are inside.

Instantly, the change between the hall outside and the inside of his room makes themselves noticeable.

For one, Belphegor has always had a penchant for keeping his bedroom cooler than the rest of the house, so the AC has probably been running all day—you used to berate him for doing the same thing in your apartment when he used to stay over.

It's dark, and you haven't been inside his room save for maybe two times in the span of time the three of you moved here, so you're not able to take notice of your surroundings, nor do you feel particularly inclined to doing so.

Not when you can tell that he's looking at you, gauging your reactions for some sort of approval. 

When he places you down on his bed, you're surprised to find that it's unbelievably comfortable, and only when he turns the lights on do you understand why.

There's pillows, at least ten of them, big and fluffy and _soft_ resting against the bedrest and behind you, you recognize a couple of them as gifts you had given him back when the three of you were dating normally, and the sight of them brings a pang of melancholy to your chest that has you feeling conflicted. 

Belphegor stands next to you as you shift yourself further down onto his bed until you're in a comfortable position.

Your face scrunches up when your leg hurts again, and it's this that springs Belphegor into action.

He mutters something under his breath before you watch him move off to the side, open a drawer and pull something back out.

It's only when he comes back to the bed, sits on the edge of it near you, and shakes the bottle that you understand what it is.

"I didn't forget," he says, as if your eyes are accusing him of something. "You're not the only hurting still."

You tilt your head, say nothing. Maybe he has been having trouble lately, it makes sense, he was bleeding so much Wednesday night. You fight down the surge of guilt that pops up again because who the fuck even does that? Sure, you were kidnapped and it _sucked_ to hell and back, but Belphegor nor Beelzebub have ever laid a hand on you with intent to hurt.

It scares you, how easy the action to _hurt_ had come to you.

You hear him call your name, and you realize your eyes had closed, your breathing turned shaky.

When you look at him, hands trembling on your lap, you find that he's leaning closer to you, eye wide and concerned.

"So—" you cut yourself off, suddenly uncomfortable. Why are you even apologizing? "W-what is it?"

If he noticed your slip of tongue, he doesn't mention it. Instead he pops open the bottle and deposits one pill on the palm of his hand.

"You still want these?" He motions with his head, you notice that there's a faint blush dusting his face. He looks nervous.

"Yes." It comes out more like a question than an answer, but the sudden shift has you reeling. 

Belphegor nods, eye flickering all over your face before they stop at your lips. It's an unconscious move—you licking your lips—but it has the same effect regardless, you see his pupils dilate. The way his throat bobs when he swallows, Belphegor leans forward. Resolve suddenly present in his face when he says, "we don't kiss anymore."

"Whose fault is that?" You purse your lips, hands tightening into fists. When you try to scoot back, Belphegor follows forward. 

"I miss it," he continues, as if you hadn't spoken. "Everything is a struggle with you nowadays. Don't you get tired of fighting, [Name]?" 

You shift, uncomfortable. "Belphie, can I have the pills? I'm tired."

The shift is barely there, but he's so close than you can't help but notice it when his eyes harden. He lets out an annoyed huff of breath.

"Fine, if you want it you can get it yourself." He leans back and a surge of panic rises in your chest at the thought of him putting the bottle on his dresser, too far away from you, but instead he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, placing the pill on it. 

Belphegor looks at you expectantly.

You clench your jaw. "You're joking." 

His stare is answer enough. 

You contemplate going to sleep without the damn painkillers, just to be petty, but you have a feeling that if you do this now, the chances of him making you do embarrassing things in order to get your damn pain killers are high.

You won't beg him, he'd like that too much, and your pride can only take so many hits to it. 

"Fine," you huff out, annoyed.

His eyes widen momentarily, clearly he wasn't expecting you to conceded so easily and you belatedly realize that maybe he would've given them to you if you hadn't gone along with his games again. 

_Fuck_ , how in the hell did they even manage to kidnap you? 

When you lean forward its a hesitant move, you can feel your face beginning to heat up and your stomach doing flips, suddenly nervous.

You hate him, you hate this, you tell yourself as you lean closer and closer, until you can feel his lips touching yours.

Someone makes a sound, a whiney little thing, and you close your eyes the minute you push forward even more.

It's just a press of lips, can feel Belphegor's tongue inside of your own mouth, unmoving. When he breathes, you can feel the hot air hitting your skin.

Carefully, you use your own tongue to transfer the pill back into your own mouth, tongue curling back to secure it and swallow, wincing at the dryness of it when it goes down your throat.

You attempt pulling back, only to be stopped by Belphegor's arm sneaking around your back and pulling you closer to him.

He's forceful when he smashes his lips against yours, a desperation to his movements that have you breathless. Wastes no time in prodding the inside of your mouth with his tongue, doesn't stop kissing you even when your lungs are beginning to burn and run hot because of the lack of air. 

Your attention runs down to a single focal point, the feeling of his lips against yours, and it's hard to concentrate. It doesn't occur to you to bite him, not when he pushes you back softly, mouth still on yours, and he leans his body over yours.

Not when his other hand is running down the side of your arm, feeling you up like he hasn't been able to in months, and definitely not when he finally pulls back for air and your own breaths match his own.

His eyes are clouded, his face flushed and his lips slick with a combination of your spit.

Belphegor doesn't give you another second before he dives back in, and even in between your protests, doesn't stop.

It's only when he tries to place his weight on top of you that the two of you remember your leg, and when you cry out, he moves away as if burned.

Your cheeks feel wet. 

When the pain dulls down again, you notice that he's running a single hand through his hair, looking like a mess. His purple eyes flicker from your face, to your lips back to your legs, and something in his face hardens. He opens up the bottle and takes out a couple of pills.

He stands up from the bed, fuming, and then you feel two tablets hit your face. You frown.

He's not looking at you as he pockets the bottle into the pocket of his hoodie, walking away from you and towards the door. There's a moment where he simply stands in front of it, hand grasping the doorknob, back to you. You're almost expecting him to say something else, _anything_ else—certainly looks like it by the way his hands clench and unclench, the hesitation to even leave—but the moment goes away in your next breath.

Belphegor leaves, closing the door behind him.

You suck in a shaky breath and bring a hand up to your lips. There's a lot you're feeling right now, and you're not exactly in the headspace to even begin deciphering those. 

**Author's Note:**

> work is never beta read, excuse any and all mistakes. art was made by me, i don't know why anyone would steal it but pls don't. 
> 
> as you can tell, the original plan was to make this a beel/mc/belphie fic. ~~there was also another drawing i did for another scene but i ended up taking it out lmao~~ it did not happen, inspiration is fickle, i have other things i wanna work on. we move on 😪✌
> 
> come yell at me on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/crystalbases).


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